#rupert volkarin

[housederiva]

I saw a post earlier (it wasn’t a serious one mind you) that was joking around about how of course Emmrich’s family was poor, his father was a butcher in a country of vegetarians

In a country whose vast majority of citizens are vegetarians, there wouldn’t be much need for a butcher and they could easily be looked down upon and the pay wouldn’t be that high which means Rupert was a dogsbody (a person who does jobs no one else wants to) and probably took the job to keep his family fed. It makes me so sad as someone whose father had a similar role irl

Emmrich wasn’t poor because his father was a butcher. His father was a butcher because his family was poor and he loved his son very very much

[winter-wise]

Emmrich's dad was a butcher, and I've already seen some people on here joking about "lol no wonder they were poor if he was a butcher in a vegetarian nation", but I think they've got it the wrong way around.

Poor people are the ones who end up doing the jobs nobody else wants to do. The jobs you take so you and your family don't starve.

In a majority-vegatarian nation, the role of butcher would likely be 1) stigmatised, and 2) low paying.

But if there's still some small demand for meat, there will still be butchers. Being a butcher is probably one of those jobs you take when you're scraping the bottom of the barrel for ways to find work.

Rupert Volkarin wasn't poor because he was a butcher. He was a butcher because he was poor.

[heylittleriotact]

Pssssst…

You know Emmrich’s ring? The one with the large stone that he says was his Father’s last gift to him? Yeah, that one.

It’s the only piece of jewelry he owns that isn’t gold: it’s actually something inexpensive like brass or copper. The large, shiny stone? Not a ruby or emerald - not even a less valuable gem like garnet or tourmaline. It’s just coloured glass.

It’s costume jewelry - you couldn’t get a copper for it if you tried to sell it in the market.

But it’s all a traumatized kid had left of his Dad, and despite all of his hard-earned wealth and success as a grown man, he wears that cheap ring that leaves a green band on his skin every single day, no matter what.

[sugardaddyemmrich]

Emmrich *definitely* would wear that print ….

Inspired by Rupert Giles x Jenny Calendar 😚

[xather2]

Me realising after all this time that my first fictional crush (Rupert Giles from Buffy) STILL has a say in who I crush on (in this case Emmrich from Dragon Age: Veilguard)...

- He's older

- He's scholarly

- He lives in a library

🫣😅

[queenmuzz]

Ballrooms and Bloodlines

A post Veilguard Rook Ingellvar x Emmrich story excerpt

“You’ve become quite the talk of Nevarra, Lady Ingellvar,” Lord Karppinen says as he smoothly guides her across the floor.  “It’s been quite a few years since we had one of our people reach such renowned status.” “Yes, it’s strange to be compared to Cassandra Pentaghast, even if it’s a high honour.”  She does not feel worthy enough to be associated with that woman that Varric liked to talk about, who wrote romance novels specifically for her enjoyment.

The name seems to irritate the young man, as he does his best to suppress a grimace.  “Pentaghast!” He says, the P sounding like he wants to spit out a wad of mucus.  She was the Right Hand of the Divine, Founder of the New Inquisition, and what does she do with that power?  Goes off and marries a Dwarf.  A DWARF!  Doesn’t even protest when the Inquisitor disbands her organization.  All that power… gone…. And she ruins her family name.” Insulting Lady Cassandra, a risky move. Zea thinks.  She already doesn’t like the man, but out of necessity, she pastes a smile on her face as they continue their dance.

“You, on the other hand, have single-handedly  accomplished so much more than her.” “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, I didn’t do it alone.  I had many friends and allies. I had one of the best Antivan Crows, a brave Grey Warden, (it’s still hard to keep her emotions in check whenever she thinks of Davrin), and of course the eminent Professor Emmrich Volkarin.”

That name brings out a face of  outright disgust.  “Volkarin…  a man who doesn’t know his station in life, deems himself as far too important to be bound by it.  Plays at being a noble, despite being nothing but a commoner.  In fact worse… a butcher’s son.”  It’s the way he says it, the way his voice drips with disdain, as if Emmrich’s father was vermin.  She frowns, and she catches Emmrich’s face from across the ballroom, seeing how concerned he looks.  He must know something is going on.  But she tries to remain diplomatic. “Honestly, I find that to be very noble, to take on such a lowly profession to support your family.  To suffer the social stigma, to bear it willingly for the ones you love, is there not honour in that?”  It is the truth.  She has never had the pleasure of meeting Rupert Volkarin in life, but she knows that he must have been a good man, someone his son emulates to this very day.

Lord Karppinen scoffs,  “You are very naive to think like that, Lady Ingellvar.” “I am not,” she argues back.  “Don’t forget, I am an orphan.  A foundling.  I claim no title nor lineage.  I am no better than that butcher you disparage.”  From the corner of her eye, she sees Emmrich now acting agitated, with Myrna placing a supportive hand on his arm.  The situation is getting out of control, and Emmrich may do something he will regret if he sees that she is being upset by this arrogant noble.

“You are much different.” He responds, his voice now returning back to its honeyed state.  An attempt to ingratiate himself to her.  “You are a founder, a once in an Age person who has the potential to start their own dynasty.  But…” his voice dips deeper, “In order for a dynasty to take root, it must also be grafted with other trees,  those with the pedigree of us nobility.   We are the ones who have fought dragons, after all.”  He’s trying to woo her, to bring her glory and accomplishments over to his household.  But he has no idea how much it has backfired on him. There it is…she sees it now, his weakness.  Nobles and their everlasting love for dragon hunting.  A butcher who carves up meat to feed starving bellies may be considered sacrilegious, but a noble’s taste for killing majestic creatures merely to decorate their halls with apparently is considered virtuous.

“Are you?” she asks sweetly, a true smile now creeping into her face.  “Tell me, Lord Karppinen, how many dragons have you killed?”  The man sputters… looks shocked that she would ask such a question, but she continues. “How many generations has it been since a Karppinen has slain a dragon?  Your father?  Your Grandsire?  Your Great Grandsire?” “This hardly matters…” he protests, but she has him with his back against the wall.

“Because Emmrich Volkarin has personally helped me hunt…” she makes an exaggerated act of calculation, “One… two… three… four… five?  Possibly more, since one of the archdemons had multiple heads… but he has taken down AT LEAST five dragons.  Who is the more noble now?”

He loses his sense of speech and she grins, as she is now the one to lead him across the ballroom floor.  Emmerich seems to have calmed down, reading the situation as not as dire as he thought, but there is a perplexed look on his face.

“Emmrich Volkarin has helped me personally dispatch not only those dragons, but also two ancient elvish gods.  He has broken into one of the most secure prisons ever created, and,” she thinks back to the conversation between Emmrich and Solas in Minrathous on that dark final day,  “he has earned the respect of the Dread Wolf himself.” At any other time, she might feel sorry for the man, the way he splutters, but today, she feels no mercy.  In fact, she feels like she ought to pay him back for his slander of her beloved.  She pulls him in for the kill, and whispers in his ear.

“Let me tell you a secret, my little ducal prince,  you might think you wish to claim me as your own, but I carry the child of the wisest man in all of Thedas in my womb.”

[lerulpes]

to the end (f!Rook x Emmrich)

Got really sad about his "you'll outlive me" dialogue/quarrel, so. Something about outliving a loved one. Bit of spoilers about Manfred. Angst and barely no comfort.

The Grand Necropolis air was colder than Jezebel remembered. Although the winds howled somewhere in the distance, it felt like time has stopped where she was standing, and the stiff cold was suffocating her.

As Emmrich always said, death comes when you least expect it. A sudden strike - and there is nothing. A few days ago, they were a happy family, today she and Manfred are burying him. How convenient of him, she thought to herself, to die here in Nevarra and not anywhere else.

On his last day he was giving a lecture on some metaphysical topic - Jezebel couldn't really remember it, it was all a blur now. She was working in her office when some kid showed up at her doorstep and tried to catch their breath.

"What the..." she murmured, raising her eyes at the student. She recognised their face. "You're from Emmrich's group, aren't you?"

"Mistress Ingellvar... you need... to go..."

"Goddamn it, what happened?" Jezebel approached the student.

"Professor... he..." the kid couldn't say what Jezebel feared they wanted to say.

The woman ran out of her cabinet to where the lecture was held. No, not now, not like that! When she reached the room, she saw him prostrate on the floor, students crowded around. Jezebel ordered them to step away. She fell on the floor beside her husband and caressed his face.

Emmrich opened his eyes, not really focusing on anything but his wife. "Jezebel," his voice was weak, almost a whisper. "You came." He managed to smile, reaching out his hand to caress Jezebel's face in return. When he touched her cheek, he felt the wet treks of her tears.

"How could I not?" Jezebel said sobbing. Every bit of make up she put on her face in the morning now was running down with the tears.

"I'm afraid, dearest," Emmrich coughed, "that my Watch is done." With these words a new wave of tears erupted from Jezebel's eyes. "Don't cry for me, my dear. Stay strong. And take care of Manfred for me, please."

Jezebel sobbed. "I will, love," she kissed Emmrich's hand.

"That's my girl."

His breath grew more shallow with each passing moment, as grew the stream of tears from Jezebel's eyes. She fell on Emmrich's chest, crying and sobbing. As a last caress, he ran his fingers through her hair - and his nand fell with no strength left.

Jezebel stood next to the fresh grave. "In loving memory of Rupert Volkarin and Elannora Volkarin", said the tombstones of his parents. "In loving memory and undying devotion of Emmrich Volkarin", said his own tombstone.

She heard bones rattling behind her - Manfred finished picking flowers. Jezebel smiled at him. "Go on, my boy," she gestured to vases in front of each tombstone. "Do it for him."

Manfred obeyed and put the flowers in the vases. When it was finished, he stood beside Jezebel once again. "Gone? Forever?"

"Well, if you will someday return to the Fade..." Jezebel chuckled. "But he is gone, yes."

"Not raise? Like Manfred?"

"A Watcher should be accepting of grief and loss. And death. Yes, Manfred, I know we resurrected you, but..." Jezebel closed her eyes. "We can't do it, Manfred. Not when the wound is that deep."

She felt a new tear run from her eye to her chin. She said quietly: "Oh dear, I will never see you again, will I?" The next moment she felt skeleton hands hug her from her side. "Oh, Manfred, my boy," she chuckled, "thank you."

"Must support. Must care." Jezebel hugged Manfred in return.

"Let's go, kid," She turned around, trying not to burst into tears again. "He wouldn't like to see us like this."

[yndlings]

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[winter-wise]

Emmrich is a vegetarian, which is the cultural norm for Nevarra, but his father was a butcher, and when Harding mentions bacon tasting good, he says "I recall", so he ate meat at some time in the past. When Emmrich was taken in by the Mourn Watch, the apprentice meals would have been vegetarian, so... the last time Emmrich ate meat, it may have been meat prepared by his father, before his parents died.

[winter-wise]

We know from Emmrich's dialogue with Neve that his family were poor when he was a child, including food insecurity, but his mother always made a hazlenut torte at Wintersend, so now I'm imagining Rupert and Elannora saving up carefully so their little family can have something nice to eat for the holiday.

[heylittleriotact]

WIP Wednesday

It’s foggy and cold, I’m in a mood… here’s an updated chunk of WIP from my Emmrich POV one shot when Rook goes missing. It’s messy and rambly and I’m having so much fun.

@xxnashiraxx what’re you cooking? 👀 (no pressure of course)

Under the cut for length

He could have just ignored it - that persistent tightness in his chest that forecasted the all-encompassing terror that would consume him in short order, stampeding through his body and reducing him to a shivering, clammy skinned likeness of a man. He could have done the intelligent thing and kept it to himself instead of trying to appease it by feeding it more pain. But no. He was Emmrich Volkarin - a smart man; an overachiever; an academic and philosophical force of nature - he knew what was best for him in that moment… and what was best for her, because for all of her quaint cheerful talk about death over breakfast, she hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about, and honestly, that pointy, bristled, vile little part of himself that he kept shackled with clever repartee and gentlemanly manners fucking hated her for it.

So he bit. He lashed out like one of the dirty, malnourished, terrified strays that scurried between the narrow gaps of the crumbling buildings in the part of the capital that he called home in his youth. His brittle fangs caught skin and drew blood, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone hunted him down and put him out of his misery - too dangerous, you see: the world has no need for a creature prone to such violence, even if it was shaped by its circumstances…

Perhaps he belonged in that prison with the gods. Perhaps the Maker had seen fit to free his parents from him: if they were dead, they no longer had to deal with the burden of a third mouth to feed while earning enough gold to maybe sustain one. Perhaps death had been freedom and relief for Rupert and Elannora Volkarin, because there was something wrong with little Emmrich, and it was in everyone’s best interests that he was alone. Perhaps the Maker looked upon Amina with that same kindness and called her away from him too, not willing to subject this kind, lonely woman to the wrongness that was Emmrich, and the carefully crafted palisade of good will that could only temporarily conceal the utter rot that dwelled beyond it.

He stared sullenly at the now room temperature bowl of roasted tomato soup Lucanis had brought him hours earlier. He knew he should eat. He couldn’t remember the last thing he’d eaten. Maybe a handful of the spicy little peppermint candies that Amina was so taken with. When she started spending more and more time in the laboratory with him, she appeared one day with a bowl full of them that she set on the mantelpiece, declaring that she was tired of going back and forth to her room to get more every time she fancied another.

He was always telling her that she couldn’t live on mints and needed to eat properly and look after herself… it was only fair that he took his own advice, but the very thought of food only made his already unsettled stomach turn on itself more.

His eyes returned to the page as he tried and failed to summon the formidable academic concentration that had taken him this far in life.

It was so odd how the words on paper kept replacing themselves with the words he should have said to Amina that night instead.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…

He sniffled and rubbed his eyes again, wiping away tears with the heels of his hands. He was so tired of crying. He had cried so much already. Couldn’t he be finished with crying?

He knew if he asked her that question, she’d look at him with that serious but perceiving smile of hers… maybe run her hand soothingly down his arm and say, “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, but I’ll keep you company if you’d like: shared sorrow is a halved burden.”

Fade take him… what a fool he was…

“Professor?”

Emmrich started at the unexpected greeting and looked up. Had Davrin been standing there long?

“Davrin,” he put on what he knew to be a cheerful, amiable tone that might have been believable if not for the weak unevenness of it. “What can I help you with?”

He’d spent so much of his life helping the living and the dead to avoid confronting his own horrors… the loss of his parents, his fear of death, the deep and persistent suspicion that he wasn’t worthy of love - why stop now?

The warden considered him, his handsome face grim and somewhat drawn; that usual fiery spark gone from his warm eyes. Emmrich watched those eyes take note of the untouched tomato soup, then the tear tracks on his gaunt cheeks. “Assan is going stir-crazy, and honestly I think I am too. I thought I’d see if you and Manfred wanted to come for a walk with us. The fresh air and change of scenery might do you some good… inspire some grand epiphany or whatever you call it.”

The mockery of a smile slid off of Emmrich’s face. Davrin surely meant well, but even the fact that he’d asked was yet another painful reminder that she was gone. “Oh. That’s… that’s very kind of you to offer, Davrin, but I simply haven’t a moment to spare. Every second that passes is precious, and I believe I am nearing a breakthrough with the tuning of the metaphysical oscillations in the lyrium dagger… I dare not walk away now.”

It was a blatant and terrible lie: the dagger was on the other side of the room on his workbench where it had sat untouched for days. Despite this, Davrin seemed to possess the decency to pretend he bought the falsehood.

“You’re always on her case about taking care of herself - maybe consider taking your own advice, Emmrich: you can’t find a way to bring her back if you’re dead.”

There was truth in the warden’s words, but Emmrich struggled to feel bolstered by them.

If he had been the one to retrieve the dagger instead, he could be the one to die alone in the Fade, and she would still be here… safe. Broken hearted, surely… but she would recover.

[crowtoed]

Your last point is brilliant, btw. As a dork who focuses on medieval and early modern history, Nevarra has a few aberrations aside from the magic and the elves and the colorfast black and purple dyes. Being a butcher in most pre-modern European societies wasn't a bad lot. You weren't going to be wealthy, but neither would your family starve. You even had a certain amount of social cache as long as your neighbors didn't think you were swindling them. It traditionally isn't what you'd call an anti-social trade (or a dogsbody, like you said, OP). Unless Nevarra's got a process for artificial leather and a healthy industry of some oil-rich cultivar like olives or sunflowers, people WILL need leather, fats (for lubrication, soap, etc.), bones, and horn. It seems Nevarrans are ovo-lacto vegetarians, so even if they're importing a lot or relying on their own livestock dying off naturally, there's going to be knackers, tanners, and renderers at work (who were considered anti-social trades in pre-Modern Europe because of the smell). Personally I think Emmrich's pa could've salted or preserved the meat and sold it on the obviously robust cross-national market just fine. Especially since armies (other peoples' armies) need animal protein. And like you said, there will also be Nevarrans eating meat. Even in a country like India, where many of the predominant faiths have some kind of restriction or guidelines on meat consumption, between 60% and 70% of the population still eats it. The codex also mentions meat being readily available for tourists and ex-pats in Nevarra. Which means it isn't the product. The product still makes money. In a lot of societies any work that comes in contact with the dead is anti-social, but not Nevarra (unless you're Cassandra). You've got Pentaghasts working as high-level Mortillitasi and the nobility shelling out fortunes for top-shelf embalming. It's not the smell or the organs or the flaying... So, it's the act of slaughter that makes Rupert Volkarin's labor unsavory. To some self-respecting vegetarian Nevarrans, he's upsetting the natural order by pre-emptively slicing the throats of farm animals to make his way. Can you imagine some snootier Nevarrans regarding Emmrich as a real rags-to-riches inspiration? A poor son of a knackerman refining himself and working up to a prestigious Watcher-Scholar, making up for his father's unsavory trade?

I saw a post earlier (it wasn’t a serious one mind you) that was joking around about how of course Emmrich’s family was poor, his father was a butcher in a country of vegetarians

In a country whose vast majority of citizens are vegetarians, there wouldn’t be much need for a butcher and they could easily be looked down upon and the pay wouldn’t be that high which means Rupert was a dogsbody (a person who does jobs no one else wants to) and probably took the job to keep his family fed. It makes me so sad as someone whose father had a similar role irl

Emmrich wasn’t poor because his father was a butcher. His father was a butcher because his family was poor and he loved his son very very much